And there she is.
Caroline.
Her face is a study in chill contempt — the look that says she'd rather eat glass than give me five minutes. Not quite slamming-the-door-in-my-face vibes, but dangerously close.
Then my gaze slides lower—just for a second, I swear.
Black sports bra. High-waist leggings hugging her legs like a damn second skin. White sneakers, crisp and clean. Hair pulled back in two neat braids that frame her face perfectly.
And... holy sweet Jesus.
My eyes dip—traitors.
Sports bra. Cleavage. Front row seat.
Abort! Abort!
Stop staring, Westbrook. For the love of God, head up. Eyes up.
My throat works overtime as I drag my gaze back up, but I couldn't tell you how long I'd been stuck there because her sharp throat-clear snaps me out of it.
Shit.
I jerk my head up like I've just been busted. "Huh? Did you say something?"
She gapes at me like I've lost my damn mind. "I said, what do you want?"
"Oh. Right." A sheepish laugh tumbles out, and I rub the back of my neck, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. "Uh... are you heading to the gym?"
She gives me a look that could peel paint. You know, theisn't it obvious, dumbass?look.
"I'm busy, Zach," she says, folding her arms. "What do you need?"
"Well, I came because I know you saw me earlier with Taylor—"
Her face shifts instantly, a flicker of irritation sparking like gasoline to flame. Fuck.
"I was worried you might've misunderstood the situation earlier. I know we were—"
"What's there to misunderstand?"
I glance left, then right. A couple girls pass by in the hallway, throwing not-so-subtle glances our way. Great. Just what I need—a public audience.
"Uh... can I come in? Please?" I ask. Fully bracing for her to slam the door shut.
Instead—miracle of miracles—she steps back, brows tight, but gestures me in. Like I've already burned through my last chance, but she's letting me hang myself anyway.
I step inside, scanning the room like it's my first time here.
And then I spot it.
The smart speaker on the desk. Screen glowing.
Current playlist:DIE, CHAD, DIE.On pause.
I fight back a grin, but nope—too late. My lips twitch, and it's a losing battle. Because I know this playlist. Oh, Iknowthis one.
Every bitter, vengeful Taylor Swift anthem ever written, stitched together into one raging playlist of heartbreak and fury.
